


I Feel Your Hunger in Your Touch

by whispered_story



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Endearments, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt Sam, M/M, Making Out, Smut, and sam bakes the world's worst pie, set during later seasons, somewhat ambiguous timeline, there's really just a lot of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 09:04:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13314924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: Sometimes, in a post-hunt rush or when emotions are running too high, they have sex, but it doesn't mean anything. They don't talk about it, but there's an unspoken rule between them: They are always back to normal the next day and they never let it affect their relationship.Until Dean sneaks into Sam's bedroom in the bunker one night and changes the rules on him.





	I Feel Your Hunger in Your Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [dancing_adrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancing_Adrift/pseuds/Dancing_Adrift) for beta'ing this ♥

The door to Sam's bedroom creaks a little as it's opened.

Sam tenses, before his muscles relax again. The bunker is safe. The safest place they've probably ever been, guarded by spells and sigils and salt, against anything and anyone that isn't them.

Sam doesn't move, sprawled out on his stomach, as he listens to the soft pattern of Dean's steps. He only sighs a little when Dean pulls the covers aside, momentarily exposing Sam to the cold air, and slides into bed with him.

"Dean?" he asks once Dean has settled down beside him. "What are you doing here?"

The first touch of Dean's hand on his naked skin is a bit of a surprise, but Sam stays still. Lets Dean slide his hand down his back, then to the right to curl around his side.

"Just checking to make sure you haven't accidentally killed yourself in your sleep," Dean murmurs. 

Sam snorts, but the sound is cut off when Dean brushes his mouth against the curve of his shoulder. His hand squeezes his side a little.

"Okay?" he asks, lips moving slowly along Sam's shoulder.

They haven't done this in a while. Weeks, maybe even a couple of months, Sam thinks — the last time was after a hunt almost went sideways, both of them high on adrenaline and tense with worry. It's how it always happens. Fear and euphoria and the weight of all of their problems twisting together, until they both feel like they might explode, the need for an outlet boiling down to just need. 

This isn't like that. 

They've been in the bunker for a few days. The last couple hunts were pretty easy and they've both had some time to sit back, regroup.

"Yeah," Sam says anyway. 

Dean sighs, kisses the side of Sam's neck as his hand slips further down. He worms his fingers under the elastic band of Sam's boxer-briefs, skimming over the soft curve of his hip, then settling hotly on Sam's ass.

It's different, but the need is still there, Dean's touch igniting something deep inside of Sam. Nobody else has ever made Sam feel this way. He's never thought about it too hard, not wanting to get into why _Dean_ makes him feel that way, why Dean excites him, makes him _want_. Doing it is a lot simpler than thinking about it.

Sam lifts his hips when Dean tugs at his underwear, starts sliding it down. The covers rustle as Dean undresses him, and Sam spreads his legs when he's done, his heart already racing and his cock hard. 

Dean slides between his legs, curls his hands around Sam's thighs and nudges them apart even wider as he settles down, nuzzles Sam's neck. He's warm and heavy, pinning Sam under him, and Sam stays pliant. Sex, with Dean and anyone else, has always been rushed, a bit rough, a bit wild. Only with Jess had it occasionally been slower, gentler.

But Sam feels heat in his stomach, feels his breath catch, when Dean slowly rolls his hips against him now. He's still wearing the old, worn out pajama bottoms he wears to sleep sometimes, and the fabric is soft against Sam's skin as Dean rubs himself against him. 

Sam is just _there_ , not doing anything, letting Dean have all the control, and he's never realized it's something he'd want. Something he'd like. But it feels good, the weight of Dean on top of him, the way he slowly rocks down against Sam, lets him feel the hard bulge of his cock pressing against the swell of Sam's ass.

"Goddamn, Sammy," Dean murmurs, and it's so quiet. 

Sam moves then, but only to reach for the nightstand. Dean stills, scatters soft kisses across his neck, as Sam pulls out lube and condoms and drops them onto the mattress. It's pitch-black in the room, save for the glowing numbers on Sam's alarm clock, but Sam knows he doesn't need to tell Dean what he retrieved from the drawer. They've never had to talk much during sex — not about logistics, about the how and who and where, anyway.

He expects Dean to speed things up then. Dean is a generous lover — and just thinking those words makes Sam feel weird, feel wrong — but he's not the most patient person. 

Except, tonight he is. There's no rush, and Sam doesn't push, doesn't ask for more. He sighs and moans quietly as Dean fingers him open slowly, the lube cold and his breath hot against Sam's nape. He twists his fingers inside of Sam, curling them and rubbing over Sam's prostate, as he mouths along his skin. A couple of times, he feels Dean whisper something into his skin, too quiet to hear but his tone is gentle, tender and Sam shivers under him.

Finally, Dean pulls out of him and lifts himself up, and Sam hears the rustle as he pushes his sleeping pants down. Sam raises one leg up further, rests his cheek more comfortably on the pillow. It's not long before Dean settles down again. He nudges his hard, slick cock between Sam's cheeks, rocks down against him, the head catching against his hole once, twice, before Dean starts pushing in.

Dean is big — the kind of big that's almost a bit intimidating — but Sam has always taken him easily. Even the very first time, when Sam wasn't so sure, having Dean inside of him has never been anything short of amazing. He doesn't mind a little pain with his pleasure, loves the way he feels himself being stretched wide by Dean's cock. The way it burns as Dean fills him. 

Now, Dean sinks into him inch by inch, and Sam bites down onto his lower lip, moans muffled. Sweat is starting to gather at the small of his back, and he can't help but move a little, rocking back to take Dean in deeper. 

"Shh. I got you," Dean whispers, kisses his jaw, the side of his throat. His voice is rough, a little strained, and Sam lets his lip pop out from between his teeth and groans.

Dean stills when he bottoms out, pressed flush against Sam's ass, his body pinning Sam down once again.

"Sammy," he says. 

"Yeah," Sam replies. "Dean."

Dean makes a broken, wanton sound then and starts moving again. He doesn't pull out far, his thrusts shallow. Pressed against Sam's back, hands holding Sam in place and face tucked into the crook of Sam's neck, he ruts down into Sam. 

Sam gives up on trying to bite back the noises that spill from his mouth. Each slow drag of Dean's thick cock against his prostate sparks a new wave of pleasure. He wants to demand more, and yet he wants this to go on forever, the feeling of being fucked like this almost overwhelming, the slow, intense burn maddening in the best way possible. Dean feels even bigger than usual inside of him, and the feeling of fullness never leaves, the pressure against his prostate doesn't ease. Sam squirms and moans and whimpers, writhing under Dean in a way that would be embarrassing if Sam gave a shit about anything but how good Dean is making him feel.

Sam wouldn't have thought he could come just from this, but then Dean murmurs, "So good for me, Sammy," into his ear and quieter, so quiet Sam thinks maybe he made it up, "Sweetheart."

And Sam comes with helpless cry, crashing over the edge so fast the pleasure ripping through him almost makes him blackout. 

He moans when he feels Dean's hips stutter, feels him shudder on top of him. Dean almost always comes from this — the feeling of Sam tightening around him as he comes. And just the thought of it, of Dean coming while buried deep in his ass, sends another wave of aftershocks through Sam.

Sweaty and too hot, both of them panting and boneless, they stay like that. Dean is too heavy, too warm, and Sam wants to tell him to get off him, but he feels too fuzzy to form the words and he drifts off just like that.

*

Dean isn't there when Sam wakes up the next morning.

Sam would think he'd made the whole thing up if it wasn't for the fact that the room still stinks of sex and there's a dull throb in his backside. When he shifts, he feels the remnants of lube too and he makes a face.

Last night had been different. Amazing, but nothing like any of the other times he's had sex with Dean. They've never talked about this, not since the first time when a messed up hunt, an unresolved argument and a bit too much whiskey had somehow resulted in them stumbling into bed together. And even then the conversation had been short, a tense, "Are we okay? Let's not make this into a bigger deal than it has to be," kind of thing. Sam knows Dean had been freaked out by it, but he'd never said a word about it to Sam, and then it happened again a couple of months later, and then again. Neither of them bothered to bring it up after the first time, and neither of them have ever attempted to put a halt to things whenever it happened. But there's still been an unspoken agreement between them ever since. Sometimes, in a post-hunt rush or when emotions are running too high, they have sex — fast and hard and dirty — but it doesn't mean anything. They are back to normal the next day and they never let it affect them. They're just two guys getting off together.

But last night had felt like it meant something. Sam can already feel it starting to mess with his head, unsure what happened and what it means.

But Dean isn't there and that's, somehow, reassuring. Whatever it was, whatever Dean was looking for last night, Sam hopes he got it and he decides it's best to act as if nothing happened, the way they always do.

So he rolls out of bed and goes to take a shower, scrubbing off lube and dried come and sweat, traces of what happened the night before.

He gets dressed and then changes the sheets quickly, stuffing the dirty ones into the washing machine before making his way into the kitchen.

Like most mornings these days, he finds Dean there, fixing breakfast.

"Morning," Sam says.

Dean shoots him a quick grin over his shoulder. He looks fine, happy — the way he does the morning after a good fuck, a look Sam has been used to since long before this thing between them started.

"Morning, Sammy," he says. "Food'll be done in a minute."

Sam nods and pours himself a cup of coffee before he sits down and waits for Dean to finish their breakfast and join him..

*

It's a normal day and after the first hour passes, Sam relaxes, writes last night off as just like any other time they've had sex.

He holes up in the library with his laptop and a stack of books. Dean joins him for a while, but he can't sit still and research for hours on end the way Sam does, so eventually he gets up to go do other things.

He brings Sam a sandwich around noon. "Eat," he instructs, voice not hard but firm, and Sam knows Dean thinks Sam would forget to feed himself if Dean didn't remind him. Some days, he probably would.

Later they have dinner, chatting about a few of the things Sam read that he thinks might be helpful to them. Afterward, Sam goes back to reading while Dean messes around on the laptop. He stays up for another couple of hours after Dean goes to bed, before he gets too tired to focus and calls it a night, too.

*

The blue-green digits of his clock read 3:13 when Sam is woken by Dean sneaking into his room again.

He turns around to face him as Dean crawls into bed with him this time.

"Sammy," Dean murmurs.

"Dean, what—" Sam starts, but before he can say anything else, Dean silences him with a kiss. Sam wants to say more, wants to ask what's going on, but Dean is a damn good kisser and he draws Sam closer by the waist, and it feels nice, being pressed together like this.

Dean shifts them so Sam is on his back, and Dean on top. He fucks him like that, with Sam's legs wrapped around his waist. It's not as slow as the night before, but not as hard and fast as usual either, and even though it's dark and Sam can barely make Dean out, being face to face feels a lot more intimate than if Dean was behind him.

Sam comes untouched for the second night in a row, hands clutching at Dean's shoulders and mouth parted around a moan that gets muffled by Dean crashing their lips together.

*

Sam wakes up alone again the next morning.

*

"Is there something going on?" Sam finally asks around noon. It's been nagging at him, making it hard for him to focus.

"No," Dean says, giving Sam a puzzled look. But Sam knows Dean well enough to know he's lying.

"Alright," Sam replies. "Dean, come on."

"What?" Dean asks, looking a bit shifty now.

"You've been coming into my bedroom for the past two nights and, well, you know." Sam makes a hand gesture, trying to somehow encompass what he means even though he doesn't really know what that is. He doesn't have a problem with them fucking — never has, and that's maybe a bit weird, but Sam's whole life has been that way — and it doesn't always have to be the same. He doesn't mind that it's different, it's been more than good both times, but it's felt different. Made _him_ feel different. And for the first time in a long, long time he thinks maybe this is something they need to talk about. That maybe they need to draw a line somewhere, or at least discuss if there are any lines and if there are not, what that means for them.

"So, I can't be horny now?" Dean asks.

Sam narrows his eyes a little, giving Dean a pointed look. 

"It's never been a problem before," Dean points out. "We're in the middle of nowhere and we live in a freaking bunker. I was in the mood, you're here and we're... you know. We do _that_."

"You know it was different."

"I'm sorry for having needs, Sammy," Dean spits, and Sam doesn't quite know why Dean is getting so worked up, so angry. Not when Sam knows something is up and he just wants Dean to be honest with him. Dean always makes these things so much harder than they need to be, when they could be so simple. 

"It's not about needs," he says calmly.

Dean gets up, the chair scraping against the floor and wobbling a little, but not falling over. "Yes, it is. You know, maybe next time you wanna fuck, I'll make a big fuss about it, too," Dean says. "And if you don't want to have sex, just fucking tell me instead of making me feel bad about it afterwards. You could have said no, Sammy. I can't read your damn mind."

"Stop," Sam says, trying hard not to let Dean get a rise out of him. He knows this is what Dean does when he feels caged in or scared — he picks a fight, pushes all of Sam's buttons until they end up in a screaming match.

Sam gets up and reaches for Dean, grabbing his arm. "I never said I didn't want it. I would _never_ let you do anything I don't want, Dean," he says.

"Let go of me, Sammy."

"So you can run away?" Sam asks. 

"Fuck you."

"No, fuck you for putting words into my mouth and turning this into something it isn't," Sam snaps.

Dean pushes at him, trying to wriggle free, but Sam just tugs him closer, tries to make him immobile. The thing is, they're pretty evenly matched and they know each other's moves and tricks, and before long they're pushing and struggling against each other. _This_ , Sam is familiar with — this is a dance they've danced a hundred times, so he isn't surprised when pushing leads to pulling and then they're kissing. It's a hard, brutal kiss and it only slows down a little when Sam has Dean backed up against a wall. Bodies rocking together, their kisses deep and wet, hands pulling at clothes — it's familiar like this, and Sam is blindingly hard before long. 

Using his weight and strength, he pins Dean to the wall by the shoulders, drawing back, and then drops down to his knees before Dean can say anything. Sam undoes Dean's jeans quickly, pulling them down just past his ass along with his boxer-briefs. He wastes no time sucking him down, one hand curled around the base of Dean's cock. He's hard, but not all the way yet, and Sam loves feeling him fill, hums around him. He has the other hand on Dean's hip, to hold him in place at first and then to tug him forward, make him move and thrust in and out of his mouth until his eyes are watering and his lungs burning.

Dean's moans and grunts echo around the library, and he tangles his hands in Sam's hair as he fucks his mouth.

Dean's the third guy Sam has sucked off — his first two experiences had been drunken fumblings at parties in college. It's only with Dean that Sam has gotten really good at this and he loves doing it now, loves using every dirty trick he knows to get Dean off. It doesn't take long and Dean is shooting in his mouth, salty and a bit bitter.

Sam works him through it and then lets him slip from his mouth. He gets up, ignoring the ache in his knees, and pulls Dean into a harsh kiss. Blindly, he fumbles for Dean's hand and guides it down to his own cock, pressing it against himself.

"Sammy," Dean mumbles into the kiss. Sam breaks it off, resting his forehead against Dean's as Dean palms him.

"Don't ever say I don't want everything we do," Sam says roughly. "Whatever the fuck is going on, don't ever make up shit like that just to get me riled up."

"Yeah, okay," Dean says, and Sam isn't sure if Dean is agreeing or just too fucked out to argue. But with Dean's hand on his cock, squeezing him through the layer of his jeans, he doesn't really want to get into another discussion.

*

Dean stays in his own room that night.

Sam finds them another hunt the next morning and they grab their bags and are off. Maybe being on the road will help — with what, Sam isn't sure, but hitting the road has always been something that helps both of them unwind, where they both feel the most at home. Even with the bunker, despite how much Dean especially loves having a homebase, driving down a highway in the Impala is where Sam thinks they're both the most comfortable.

The hunt is a simple salt and burn and they're done with it in a couple of days. The ghost — a Civil War soldier terrorizing a small town — is vicious, but nothing they can't handle. 

Back in the motel, Dean calls dibs on the first shower and disappears in the bathroom. Sam pulls off his jeans, caked with mud from digging up a grave in the rain, and his shirt and sits down on his bed. Two beds, which they'd slept in separately, and that had been normal. But Dean, for the past couple of days, has seemed less at ease than Sam had hoped he would. Keyed up in a way that Sam would usually say means he needs to get laid — even though it's only been a few days.

A small part of Sam worries that their little argument has made Dean feel self-conscious about initiating anything. And sure, there are other options — but Dean hasn't mentioned wanting to hit a bar, to hook-up, hasn't even flirted all that much. Usually, Dean bats his eyes at every pretty waitress he sees.

Making up his mind, Sam strips the rest of his clothes off.

The bathroom is already steamed up from the shower, the air hot and damp. Sam pushes the plastic partition aside and steps in behind Dean, gaze swiping over him up and down once — taking in all the tan skin and muscles, slick with water — and grins when Dean looks back at him with slightly wide eyes.

"What the hell, Sammy?" he asks, eyes narrowing after just a split second.

"Thought we could save some water," Sam says, like it's nothing. They've never done this before — not for fun, anyway. When one of them was too sick or injured, they might have given each other a hand, but the underwear usually stayed on for that. And despite all the sex they've had, they never shower together.

"Funny," Dean mutters. "Wait your damn turn."

"Hmm, but maybe I want more than just a shower," Sam says and steps closer to Dean, pressing up behind him. He ducks down, nosing at Dean's jaw, and circles his waist with his arms. He doubts he looks as good as Dean does under the shower, knows his hair looks stupid all slicked down and wet, but he hopes he's still enticing enough. 

Dean needs to unwind and Sam, if he's honest, wouldn't mind getting pounded into the mattress either. After making out in the shower, getting them both going, because this might be something he has thought about once or twice.

"Really, Sammy?"

"Really," Sam confirms and then adds, in a voice that's quieter, sweeter, "Please, Dean."

Dean shifts, his ass pushing back against Sam's cock, the friction making Sam's mouth open around a small moan. Before he can get more, can thrust forward, Dean turns around in his embrace and cups his face, pulling him down into a kiss.

*

Sam gets his wish. And afterward, Dean shifts them around so they're lying face to face. He pushes Sam's hair out of his face, curves his hand around Sam's jaw and kisses him.

At first, Sam thinks Dean maybe wants to start on another round. But Dean doesn't push for more, just keeps kissing Sam. It's a bit weird, because it's another thing they don't usually do, but Sam likes making out. And he likes kissing Dean especially. 

And lying together, touching and kissing and enjoying the afterglow instead of one of them moving over to the other bed after just a couple of minutes is nice.

*

Dean's mood is a lot better the next day. He's grinning widely as they pack up, hums along to the music and lets Sam pick where he wants to stop for lunch.

Sam isn't an idiot. 

Dean loves sex. But he's no stranger to going without it for a while, and Sam knows this whole thing is about much more than Dean being horny and needing an outlet. There are two other explanations for Dean's behavior that Sam can think of — either Dean isn't satisfied with the kind of sex they're having anymore and it's been making him feel extra keyed up or he wants more than what their arrangement has entailed until now. Sam guesses it's the latter, because otherwise Dean could be looking for it elsewhere. And the last few days have proven that Dean has no intention to do that, that he's looking for something else with _Sam_.

That still could mean a number of things, of course. It doesn't mean Dean wants hearts and flowers and romance. But wanting more than the occasional hook-up after a hunt is the first step to making things a lot more complicated between them. Sam's been doing a good job not looking at what they're doing too closely, not questioning it, but if this thing between them would turn into more — even if it was still just about sex — he's not sure he'd be able to keep doing that. He's already thinking about them way too much right now, questioning, wondering, worrying.

Sam isn't sure if that's what he wants. More so, he's a little concerned that that's exactly what he wants and if he does, then that would change a lot of things regardless of Dean's feelings.

*

Sam knows he needs time to think. To figure out what he wants.

But apparently not so much so that Sam turns Dean away when they get back to the bunker and Dean kisses him before they've even dropped off their bags and murmurs, "Fuck, I've been hard for the past few hours."

Instead, Sam lets Dean drag him into his bedroom, kisses him back just as enthusiastically, lets himself be undressed and prepped. Arches and moans and cries out Dean's name as Dean fucks him from behind. The position is familiar, the intensity too, but the way Dean touches him, the way he murmurs Sam's name over and over, the way he leans over Sam and bites at his shoulders, sucking a hickey there while he comes, isn't.

They make out again afterward, lying in a tangle of sweaty limbs and sticky sheets. But Sam pushes for more this time, feeling needy and a little out of control and if he wasn't so far gone those feelings would probably scare him. Straddling Dean, he sinks down onto him and then rides him hard and fast, wanting nothing more than to feel it for days.

And maybe Sam already knows what he wants, deep down. But with Dean this close, it's hard to think clearly. To not go a little crazy.

*

Sam gives himself a few days. A lot of the time that he claims to be reading in the library, he's actually thinking about Dean.

It's like opening a door to something that can never be shut out again. For years, he wouldn't allow himself to think about this. But now that he does, he realizes just how deep his feelings for Dean run. He's been the center of Sam's world for a long time and he loves him more than anyone else in the world — that's not a new revelation. But when he thinks about having a different type of relationship with Dean now, there's actually very little he can't picture himself doing, having, with Dean.

What they've been doing has been convenient and maybe inevitable. And it's been great — Sam doesn't regret it, doesn't feel bad about it. But he realizes he wouldn't mind if they did it a lot more frequently, and stayed in each other's beds afterward. If he could kiss Dean more often, whenever he wanted. If they could be intimate with each other in ways they haven't so far and if he could kiss and touch Dean for the hell of it, without aiming for sex. Sam _likes_ relationships, but he's resigned himself to not having one — but with Dean, it's something he might actually be able to have, to maintain.

*

The many secrets they've kept from each other over the years aside, Sam has always been the one who has tried to get them to talk more, to be more open with each other.

And just a few days ago he was the one to try to get Dean to talk to him, so Sam realizes it's a bit ironic that he doesn't know how to talk about this with Dean now. To tell him what he's realized, what he wants and how he feels about Dean.

Part of him is a bit worried it will fuck things up. But more than that, he just doesn't know how to put what he wants from Dean into words. "I want to have a relationship with you," just doesn't seem like enough — what he and Dean share is so much more than that, so much bigger. 

If they do this, there's no going back. Ever. And all the ways Sam knows to express that sound cheesy and over the top and yet lack how deeply he really feels. 

Dean isn't just the most important person in his life. Dean is _his person_ , and they've proven time and time again that there's nothing they wouldn't do for each other. Other people might talk about meeting their soulmate, but Sam literally knows Dean is his, has had it confirmed. Dean already is all the things Sam wants — his best friend, his family, his partner, the person he lives with and shares everything with and has sex with. And yet there's so much more he wants now and it's hard to find the right words for that.

Especially since it's Dean and talking to Dean is tricky on the best of days.

So Sam decides to take a page out of Dean's book and do it his way — letting actions do the talking for him.

*

Sam sets his alarm clock for the next morning and gets up early, just to crawl right into Dean's bed.

Dean is barely awake, looking endearingly sleepy and confused, when Sam pulls his sleeping pants down and starts sucking him off. 

"Oh fuck, S-Sammy," Dean stutters, his voice raspy. Sam hollows his cheeks, sucks, and slides a hand between Dean's legs, lets one finger slide between his cheeks. He plays with Dean's hole as he sucks him down deep, rubbing over his entrance and letting his finger sink in up to the first knuckle.

Dean whimpers and moans, tugs at Sam's hair and makes these adorable, startled noises, like he's trying to say something but his mind is too fried to form words. 

After he comes, Sam sucks him clean, presses a few damp kisses to his softening cock, then the jut of Dean's hipbone.

"Dude," Dean says, sounding both more awake and totally out of it. "That was amazing."

Sam snorts and shuffles up on the mattress. 

_You could have that every morning_ , he thinks. But he keeps those words to himself. 

Sam lies down, his head on Dean's shoulder, and lets his fingers trail over Dean's stomach.

"Want me to..." Dean talks, shifting, and Sam knows he's about to return the favor. He shakes his head.

"Think I just want to go back to sleep for a little bit," Sam murmurs and slides his leg over Dean's to drive the point home, and maybe to keep Dean trapped where he is.

Dean makes a small noise, clearly puzzled, but he doesn't kick Sam out of the bed and Sam counts that as a win.

*

"The hell is that?" Dean asks when he comes into the kitchen the next day. He's spent the afternoon tinkering with the car and there's dark grease smudged across his cheek.

Sam grins and looks down at the counter at the still steaming pie tin where Dean's gaze is directed. 

"That," he says with a flourish, "is the world's worst pie. Made by yours truly."

Dean looks at him, then back at the pie, and then back at Sam and snorts. "Sam. That's awful."

Sam's grin gets wider. "And it probably tastes just as bad as it looks," he confirms.

Dean shakes his head at him, but the expression on his face is soft. Fond. "It's not my birthday," he says.

"No."

"Then why the hell did you make pie?" Dean asks. "Or attempt to?"

Sam shrugs. "You can do nice things for someone without having to have a reason," he points out. "Want some?"

"Sure," Dean agrees. 

Sam smiles at him, so wide his cheeks hurt, and gets them both a fork. They stand side by side, digging their forks right into the pie tin, not bothering with plates.

They both take a bite and Dean gives a small choked-off laugh as he chews.

It's too sweet and at the same time it tastes a little bitter from being charred and the filling is gooey in all the wrong ways, almost slimey. 

"Sammy," Dean says and swallows thickly. "That's really bad."

"Yeah," Sam agrees. He leans in and kisses Dean, draws it out until it's all slow and deep, and he can taste the pie on Dean's lips. Then he draws back and licks his lips. "Nope, still tastes gross."

Dean looks at him like he's grown a second head, but then his lips twitch up and he laughs. Sam can't help but laugh too, soft and quiet, eyes fixed on Dean and the way his eyes crinkle and his mouth turns up. He thinks this is way better than making a perfect pie, really.

*

"Let's watch a movie," Dean suggests that night, and Sam doesn't hesitate to agree. As much as Sam loves doing this with Dean, it usually takes a bit of convincing to drag him away from his books and research.

Right now, all he can think about, can focus on, is getting closer to Dean though. He's not sure if his plan is working quite yet, but at least Dean isn't running away, so Sam counts it as a win.

"Sure, yeah. That sounds good," he says and the pleased look on Dean's face alone is worth it. Sam makes a mental note to do things like this with Dean more often — to kick back and relax and just be together.

"I'll go make some popcorn and get us drinks," Dean says.

"Need help?"

Dean gives Sam a look. "You stay out of the kitchen from now on, Sammy," he says, voice mock stern. "I'll come join you in a few. Just go and wait for me. Pick a movie, if you wanna."

"Okay," Sam agrees, and heads for his bedroom.

He doesn't have to wait long before Dean joins him, beers and a bowl of popcorn in hand. 

"Movie?" Dean asks.

"This was your idea, so you get to pick," Sam offers, taking the bowl and putting it between his splayed legs. Dean places the beers on the nightstand next to Sam before walking over to the drawer where Sam keeps a bunch of DVDs — most of them Dean's favorites. Sam usually just streams movies, but Dean prefers having the DVDs. Maybe because he never had this — a home, a place where he can store things, accumulate things that aren't just hunting related. 

The laptop is for porn and streaming movies when they're on the road, he once told Sam. 

"Anything?" Dean asks as he shuffles through the cases.

"Anything," Sam agrees, knowing there's nothing he would hate to watch — and Dean is predictable anyway. Just like his music, Dean likes movies that are old classics. 

When Dean finally picks something and pops the DVD in, Sam grins when the menu shows.

"High Noon. Shocking," he says.

Dean sticks his tongue out and joins Sam on the bed, remote in hand. "You said _anything_ , bitch."

"Jerk," Sam replies, half automatic and half because this is still their thing after all these years and he can't not say it. "And I meant it. So start the movie already."

Dean grins at him, pressing play and then making a grabbing motion with his hand until Sam passes him a bottle. They're sitting close enough that they're touching, arms and legs pressing together and hips brushing, Dean's warmth and weight against him so familiar that Sam instantly relaxes.

"Gary Cooper's hot," Sam murmurs, quietly, to test the waters. How he's testing the water with this he isn't sure — Dean knows Sam is into guys as much as women. Knows Dean isn't the only guy he's ever been with. But Sam doesn't really talk about any specifics, always tries to be as discreet about it as possible. He's never talked about any guys he's been with to Dean, never mentions when he thinks someone is hot. 

And maybe there's a small, idiotic part of him that hopes Dean will be a tiny bit jealous. Of a guy who died over fifty years ago.

"Gary Cooper, huh? Not Grace Kelly?" Dean asks, sounding a bit amused. So much for jealousy.

So Sam decides to try a different tactic. "Oh, like you wouldn't bend over for him and let him fuck you."

"He's dead."

"Semantics," Sam says.

Dean makes a face and then shrugs. "Yeah, I would," he admits. "But only if he wears that hat."

"Yeah?" Sam asks, a little surprised by Dean's answer. He knows Dean isn't as straight as he tries to pretend — the whole thing with Sam notwithstanding, because that's different, that has nothing to do with Sam being a guy — but he never thought Dean would openly admit to it. Man crushes on TV doctors and cowboys aside, Dean has always, vocally, been all about girls.

"It's Gary Cooper."

"Right."

"And the hat, you know," Dean says and then, after a moment, adds, "You looked kinda hot when you wore yours, back in Sunrise."

"Yeah?" Sam asks, a little hopeful.

"Fishing for compliments isn't proper for a lady, Sammy," Dean says, a smirk on his face, turning back toward the movie.

Sam shifts, leaning closer into Dean. "Well, maybe I'll wear it again one day."

He waits, one second dragging into two.

"Yeah?" Dean asks. And if Dean wasn't the master of pretending, putting on a face, Sam knows he'd sound breathless. 

He grins. "Hmm. Since I looked kinda hot and everything."

"Would look even hotter paired with a pair of assless chaps," Dean says, lips curved up. 

Sam laughs. "I draw the line at assless chaps," he says.

Dean huffs. "Well, you're not a real cowboy anyway. Real cowboys know how to ride. And you suck at it."

Sam sits up and slides onto Dean's lap, hands on his shoulders. "Oh, I do suck. And I can ride."

"Prove it, sweetheart," Dean murmurs and this time, Sam hears the endearment loud and clear. No denying it. He slides his arms around Sam, grabs his ass, and Sam grins as he leans in for a kiss.

*

Dean stays in Sam's room that night.

He doesn't ask and Sam doesn't offer, and in the morning Dean slides out of bed mumbling something about coffee and breakfast. Sam gets up too, both of them naked, and grins when Dean looks him up and down.

"Shower first," Sam says.

Dean licks his lips and lets out a loud sigh. "I guess if I have to," he says.

*

"Sam."

Pain. All Sam feels is pain.

"Sam!"

Sam blinks his eyes open, his head feeling fuzzy. "'m okay," he mumbles, turning his head a little into the hand that's palming his face. Dean looks down at him with worried eyes.

"Yeah, sure," Dean says. "You're fine, big guy. Let's just get you out of here, okay?"

It takes a moment before everything comes back to Sam; where they are, the case they're working, and getting tossed into the air and against a wall like he was nothing before everything went dark.

"Ghost," he says, voice slurred, and makes a pained noise when Dean helps him sit up.

"I took care of it," he says. "Come on, Sammy."

"Dean," Sam says, and that's all he gets out before his stomach twists and he turns before he throws up. Dean rubs his back, making soft shushing noises, and when Sam is done, his stomach feeling a little less awful, he collapses against Dean.

He feels woozy, his back hurts like a bitch from being thrown into a wall, and he knows he blacked out, which is never a good thing. But he's too out of it to really worry, to do anything but let Dean help him up and guide him back to the car.

*

Sam whines when he's shaken awake. "Head," he mumbles, pain spiking.

"Sorry," Dean says, and for once he actually sounds genuine. "You have a concussion, Sammy. I gotta. How do you feel?"

Dean is sitting on the edge of the bed, facing him. Sam squints at him, and he can tell he's worried, so he tries to school his features a little, look less like someone who is in pain.

"I'm really okay," he murmurs.

"No, but you will be," Dean says, lying down with him. "You got the best brother in the world taking care of your injured ass."

"'s a good ass."

"I've seen worse," Dean teases. He reaches up and tucks a few strands of hair behind Sam's ear. "You know that if you have concussions too often, it can kinda scramble your head."

"I know," Sam mumbles.

Dean gives him a look Sam can't decipher. "Don't get your head scrambled, Sammy," he says, and kisses Sam softly. It's chaste, cautious, and over way too fast.

Sam shifts, scooting down until he can tuck his head under Dean's chin. "I'll try," he murmurs.

*

Dean insists they stay in the motel for three more days, giving Sam time to rest. Sam doesn't point out that when Dean injures himself, they're usually back on the road within a day. There's no case they have to get to, the world isn't about to implode right this second, and Sam has learned to pick his battles with Dean.

Dean makes them stop for the night instead of driving right through, and they sleep in one bed, but Dean stops any attempts by Sam to move past lazy kissing. And Sam likes making out — Dean is better at it than any person has a right to be — but spending a few days cooped up inside has made Sam feel a little antsy. 

And maybe he's a little horny. Unlike what Dean claims, Sam has never been a monk. He's a lot more picky about his partners than Dean is, but Sam likes sex just as much as the next guy. And he especially likes it with Dean — there's something about him that, now that things between them are a lot more casual, is really hard to resist. Sam wants him, all the time.

Back in the bunker, Dean tries to hustle him right back into bed, but Sam finally puts his foot down.

"I can do some reading," he says. "I'm fine. I promise not to do any heavy lifting — I'll just research a little."

"You're such a nerd, Sam," Dean says, exasperated.

"Yeah, and you know that stopped being an insult to me when I was about eight."

"Whatever, nerd," Dean mutters. "I'm going to go make us some food. You go be a bookworm."

He turns around and heads for the kitchen.

"Not an insult either," Sam calls after him.

*

Sam gets comfortable in the War Room with a stack of books and files. Dean joins him eventually with burgers and — to Sam's surprise - a salad for Sam. He also has a beer for himself.

Sam sighs when Dean hands him a water. "No beer for me?"

"I'm trying to be responsible and take care of you, so shut up and take it," Dean mutters.

Sam rolls his eyes, but drops it. Dean keeps glancing at Sam while they eat, and after clearing the dishes he returns and sits down opposite Sam again, and he keeps watching him.

"I'm not going to keel over," Sam says with a sigh.

"I know," Dean replies. "Probably."

Sam gives him a wry grin. "So, how long are we gonna do this before I'm allowed to do stuff again?"

"You're doing stuff," Dean points out.

"How long before we're going to have sex again?" Sam elaborates. 

Dean shifts, looking a little uncomfortable. "Since when do we talk about this?"

"Really?" Sam asks. "I think we're past that stupid rule."

"Sam."

"Fine, since you're refusing to have sex with me. So deal with it," Sam says.

"You have a concussion," Dean points out. "You're not supposed to do any strenuous activity."

Sam gives Dean a patient smile. "I can just lie there and you can do all the work."

Dean's lips twitch, but he doesn't quite smile. "What's up with you being all horny because you haven't gotten any in a few days? You sound like me, dude."

"You're just that good," Sam intones gravely. Dean gives him a look, but Sam can see the tips of his ears turning red. He'll never tell Dean how damn cute it is that he blushes when he gets flustered.

"Shut up," Dean mutters. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Really?"

"Well, not right now. Maybe in a couple of days," Dean says.

Sam smiles at him. "Fine," he agrees. "So, since we're talking about this..."

"No."

"No?"

"We're not talking about this," Dean says. "We've _never_ talked about this."

"Dean," Sam sighs. "I'm afraid we're already talking about it."

"Well, we're stopping now."

Sam looks at him, hard, starting to feel a little irritated, and he can tell Dean is about to bolt. "Look," he starts. "I just wanna know the limits, I guess. I need to know what's okay and what not, because I don't want to accidentally fuck this up."

It's not quite the truth. Sam wants a lot more, but he knows not to push Dean. 

"Sam, I can't..." Dean starts and rubs his hands over his face.

He can't talk about it. Can't do this. Sam knows how difficult this is for Dean — he's never been good at talking about his feelings, at going after what he wants, and most of all he's had a much harder time with this thing between them. 

"Okay," Sam says, a little more gently. Another time, he thinks — they can't run from this forever and Dean will just have to face their relationship sometime later. Sam can be patient for a little longer. Just pushing in other ways, silently. 

Dean looks at him, jaw twitching. "No limits," he says, voice rough and so quiet Sam almost doesn't hear him.

"What?"

"No limits," Dean replies. "Are we done talking now, Sammy?"

"I... yeah," Sam says, dumbfounded. Dean huffs, but his lips are turned up into a smile.

*

Sam wakes up with Dean plastered to his back, arms around him.

It's too hot and Sam is in desperate need of a shower, dried sweat and come making his skin itch, lube the gross kind of sticky between his cheeks now. But he hums happily anyway and pushes back into Dean's warmth. 

"Stop moving. No strenuous activity, remember?" Dean murmurs, kissing the back of Sam's nape.

"That's not what you said last night," Sam teases around a yawn.

"Shut up, I was doing all the work, bitch," Dean replies. He pinches Sam's hip, and Sam yelps, laughing. He grabs Dean's hand, tangling their fingers, and pulls it back around him, holding it tight against his stomach.

"Hey Dean?" he says. "Don't ever get your head all scrambled either, okay?"

Dean sighs softly and moves against Sam, kissing the curve of his shoulder. "I'll try," he says. "And if it happens, I already have a list of spells that would fix things, sweetheart."

"I kinda like it when you call me sweetheart," Sam says quietly.

Dean kisses his shoulder again, then his throat. "Don't know what you're talking about. I never called you sweetheart in my life," he says, and Sam can feel his grin against his throat.

"Oh, my bad. Sorry."

"You're forgiven, sweetheart," Dean says, and Sam is glad Dean can't see just how wide the smile on his face is.


End file.
